


Orpheus, play yourself a path from Hades

by ShitpostingfromtheBarricade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chitons, Don't copy to another site, Get-Together Fic, M/M, POV Grantaire (Les Misérables), Secondhand embarrassment, Thighs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27290083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade
Summary: Grantaire is probably going to die.It isn’t even from his own stupid behavior: no, instead it’s Enjolras existing as a whole and individual person who makes decisions like coming to a Halloween party in achiton,of all things.Warnings:secondhand embarrassment, casual alcohol consumption (no abuse)
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 125
Collections: Hemingway Workshop





	Orpheus, play yourself a path from Hades

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by my love, my life, my [PieceOfCait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait).
> 
> (no homo)
> 
> Title stolen from this [unrelated and much more serious fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1197465).

Grantaire isn’t going to die. Grantaire isn’t going to die. Grantaire isn’t going to die.

Grantaire is probably going to die.

It isn’t even from his own stupid behavior, is what makes the whole thing so grossly unfair: no, instead it’s Enjolras existing as a whole and individual person who makes decisions like coming to a Halloween party in a _chiton,_ of all things. He thanks Apollo that Enjolras had been veered away from making an appearance in a chlamys — but then, Grantaire’s pretty sure that the sight of Enjolras’s entire bare side exposed would do humanity in. F to Enjolras’s past lovers, they died doing a most noble deed (and man).

He wants to blame Courfeyrac for the idea, but Enjolras is an independent individual with independent thoughts who, surely, has independently come up with his own Halloween costume at least once in his life. (The accuracy of the design casts blame onto Combeferre anyhow, but Combeferre has come dressed as an actual atom, so it’s very difficult to be mad at him with the remaining three brain cells he has after having borne witness to Enjolras’s thighs.)

And Enjolras’s thighs are most certainly available to bear witness to: whatever his source for this costume was must have been the Mark Antony version, because the length of the chiton leaves little to the imagination, and Grantaire’s imagination is _stunning._ He’s kind of mad, too: Grantaire has multiple friends with seriously muscled thighs — Irma, Bahorel, Bahorel’s girlfriend. Hell, Floréal had had to put a conscious effort into not crushing his skull like a very willing walnut between her perfectly corded thighs — 

Yet here he is, fantasizing about suffocating against legs whose only exercise is running from the cops and the occasional parkour (also from the cops). It’s patently unfair, and Grantaire _definitely_ needs another drink.

He should be excused, then, when thirty minutes and one beer later he yelps as Enjolras deposits himself into Grantaire’s lap.

His lap.

_That’s where Grantaire’s penis is._

“Fancy meeting you here,” Enjolras says by way of greeting.

It takes a moment, but Grantaire’s voice is blessedly within its usual register when he finally responds, “Fancy that.” A moment passes in which Enjolras does little more than stare at him with an expression Grantaire can only describe as hopelessly confident and sexy (Jehan says that Grantaire is too liberal in his application of these adjectives where Enjolras is concerned, but Grantaire is sure that his friends are merely not liberal enough, ironic though the insistence may seem out of context); once it is established that this is sincerely all he intends to do, Grantaire continues of his own stupidass accord, “Any reason our place of acquaintance is my lap?”

Enjolras has the nerve to push himself into a full kneel, and if Grantaire was a weaker man he might expire on the spot. Tragically, he is not, so he is fully conscious when Enjolras looks down at him to respond, “It seemed like as good a place as any to settle in for the evening.”

 _Thanatos, take me now._ “Cool. Cool cool cool.” Normally this is the part where he would get really tangential about something, _anything,_ but he is drawing such a total and absolute blank on anything that isn’t his increasing suspicion at Enjolras’s commitment to the historical accuracy of Roman undergarments (which is to say, None) that he isn’t sure what language would come out if he tried to speak, if any. “Cool.”

“It actually is a rather cool outfit,” Enjolras picks up helpfully with a significantly less helpful hip gyration, right in front of Grantaire’s face _(where his_ eyes _are)._ “It was rather chilly outside, but now that we’re in and there’s so many people here, it’s a relief. Here, feel for yourself,” he adds, even less helpfully moving Grantaire’s hands to the outside of Enjolras’s thighs, edges of his chiton brushing the newly relocated fingertips in overeager welcome.

Grantaire glances around the room to no avail. Is everyone really just letting this happen? Yes, Grantaire has had a beer or two since arriving, but surely it’s not so many that he’s imagining how provocative this is. Where are his friends? Romans? Countrymen? 

(In his lap, apparently.)

The skin there is warm, though: when Enjolras first came in, Grantaire is certain that they must have held an edge of frost, but now they’re soft and flush to the touch, almost velvety under Grantaire’s fingertips. Experimentally, he lets his grip grow tighter, feeling how Enjolras’s plush thighs give way to the touch, watching the way Enjolras’s eyelids flutter shut and his head tilts ever so slightly back —

Grantaire’s hands return staunchly to his sides. He is buzzed, and he is beginning to believe that Enjolras may have overindulged in whatever pregame activities the triumvirate engaged in beforehand. Maybe the costume was part of a dare? One of Enjolras’s hands steadies himself on Grantaire’s shoulder, but the other holds a stemmed glass: surely this is the answer Grantaire is looking for. 

Enjolras is frowning down at Grantaire now, and he remembers suddenly that it’s his turn to speak. “Yes, very —” Why had Enjolras had Grantaire touch his legs again? “— warm. Cool. Temperate.” _Nailed it._

Whatever conversation Enjolras wants to have here, he seems determined to have it. At least he has the decency to sit down from his kneeling position, resting mid-thigh on Grantaire. His hand is still on Grantaire’s shoulder, but he pauses to sip from the glass in his other hand because _right, he’s drunk._ Grantaire has experience with drunk people, including drunk people demonstrating behavior that could be perceived as ‘throwing themselves at him.’ With the knowledge that this will be nothing more than a regrettable hangover to Enjolras in the morning, Grantaire feels some of his confidence return. 

“What are you dressed as?” Enjolras’s question is accompanied by the draw of his finger along the deep V of Grantaire’s neckline. 

“Um.” What _is_ he dressed as? Grantaire looks down to check, and _nope,_ that’s a mistake, because that’s where Enjolras’s _hand_ still is, his fingers long and curled around the edge of the fabric. Grantaire’s eyes close as he swallows, taking a steadying breath to try to will away Horny Thoughts and summon more useful information than fine dining, breathing, and the way Enjolras’s skin looks juxtaposed against his.

It’s not working. _Fuck it,_ he magnanimously and also probably accurately decides. _Enjolras won’t recognize whatever obscure bullshit I pulled out of my ass anyway._ “Joe Jonas.”

This makes Enjolras look surprised, at least. “‘Joe Jonas’?” he repeats. “Not Sexy Luke Skywalker?”

That is very definitely what Grantaire is dressed as. “Hahah, yep; I was testing you, looks like you passed.” And then, “Why would you ask me a question you already know the answer to?”

Enjolras’s expression freezes before relaxing again (his whole body relaxes too, which is totally fine except in all of the ways it’s _not)._ “I like hearing you say it.” His hand moves from Grantaire’s top to his face, fingertips gliding gently along his jaw as Enjolras’s thumb brushes with deliberate focus over Grantaire’s lower lip. “Things always seem better in your mouth.”

Aaaaaaaaand Grantaire is hard. He is hard, and Enjolras’s crotch is _right there,_ and Grantaire isn’t strong enough for this, he’s not. Panic has shifted his mild buzz to full sobriety, he is hyperaware of everything happening right now (especially the way the full intensity of Enjolras’s attention is on Grantaire’s mouth and how his fingers feel against Grantaire’s face), and _why isn’t anyone stopping this?_

At last, he sees his out: the glass of wine still hovers at Enjolras’s shoulder. Grantaire can use this.

He reaches for the drink, making intentional and soul-scorching eye-contact with Enjolras as he brings it to his lips. It forces Enjolras’s hand into Grantaire’s hair, which is a minor improvement until Grantaire takes a sip and Enjolras _tugs._ He does a heroic job not choking on the wine, though he couldn’t say anything about its flavor profile, and he has to take a second gulp before he can force the new topic of discussion, which — 

What the fuck? _What the fuck?_ Where did Enjolras even _get_ grape juice? Who even _brings_ grape juice to a 21+ Halloween party? The absolute fucking _gall._

“A fine vintage,” is what he manages.

“Is it now?” The expression on Enjolras’s face is deadly enough, but when he wrests the wine glass (Is it still a wine glass if it’s plastic and holding grape juice?) back from Grantaire and tips his head back to down the rest, the column of his throat bared and moving as the glass drains at a devastatingly slow pace, Grantaire is fairly certain he’s in one of the circles of hell. Not the Greek ones either: he’s thinking Dante, and he’s thinking it’s one of the heavy hitters.

With the glass (?) drained and Enjolras looking at him again, Grantaire can see that his lips are now stained a dark purple on the inside, and that should not be working as well as it is _but it is_ because this is _hell,_ it’s hell and Enjolras is wearing a _chiton_ and Grantaire is a much guiltier and more deserving Zagreus, and it would be so easy to sit up only a handful of inches and give in to Tantalus, licking into Enjolras’s mouth to taste the Red 40 from the source — 

Worse yet, with the cup (it’s plastic, it’s a cup) empty, Enjolras carelessly drops it to the floor behind him where it is cushioned by (and no doubt stains, with its Blue 1-imbued pomegranate droplets) the cream-colored carpet of the flat. This by itself is a risk one accepts when they make the mistake of hosting a party, but now both of Enjolras’s hands are available to brace against the sofa on either side of Grantaire’s face, and he is not a good enough person for this, he absolutely is _not._

“I, uh —” he manages, which is pretty brave given that Enjolras is leaning in and _shifting,_ Aphrodite help him, and staring at Grantaire’s mouth in a way that demolishes the few traces of thought that he had scraped together.

Enjolras’s nose is already slotted beside his, and _gods and goddesses above and below_ he can _taste_ the damned apple juice used to flavor the 100% grape-flavored fruit juice. Enjolras’s breath is ambrosia against Grantaire’s oversensitive lips, Grantaire’s hands have found the tops of Enjolras’s soft, soft thighs again, and it is a full-time job with bank holidays and dental to keep his hips from thrusting in the least (most) _(least)_ opportune position he has ever had the wildest fucking fever dreamed chance of finding himself in.

“Oh shit, my phone is going off.”

“What?” 

Enjolras looks actually offended, which is great because it means that Grantaire can rally together enough brainpower to throw the object of his _fucking demise_ onto the stretch of couch beside him before launching himself to his feet. Does he even have his phone on him? A quick pat-down says ‘no,’ and he holds his hand in a caricature of its shape up to his ear. “Hello? No, I’m not busy. Yeah, I’ll be right there,” he says, adjusting his tunic over himself as he hightails it the fuck out of there. 

He’d had a coat when he arrived, but he’s willing to cut his losses if it means getting out of the flat any faster. As it is, he barely pauses to sweep up his shoes, and he doesn’t bother putting them on until the concrete outside is making his feet sting with cold; luck alone has stood between him and an inopportune piece of glass. _(And okay Tyche, where were_ you _five minutes ago?)_

The walk home is long and cold, and it feels even longer when he realizes that his keys are in his abandoned coat. There’s a chance his flatmate is in, but given the general direction of tonight, it doesn’t seem like a good one. Still, he’s enough of an optimist _(hah)_ to approach the lobby doors and see if a particularly patient neighbor might buzz him into the building.

Instead, he finds Enjolras and promptly abandons any remaining faith in the existence of just or loving gods.

“You forgot your coat,” he says, offering it up. 

Grantaire’s disbelief (probably, since it’s definitely not pride) leaves him staring at it for a beat before accepting it. “You could have waited until the next meeting,” Grantaire tells Enjolras brusquely, pointedly not looking at him.

“Your keys were in the pockets.”

“You couldn’t have known this was where I was going.”

“Your phone was, too.”

_Not even one._

“Look,” continues Enjolras with a sigh, “I’m sorry about tonight. I came on strong and made you uncomfortable, and I should have been more mindful of that.” His whole body seems to heave under the shrug that follows. “I didn’t get a cab out here to make more unwanted advances, I just wanted to be sure you got home safe and know that it won’t happen again.”

_… half a just and loving god._

Because if Enjolras is saying what Grantaire thinks he’s saying … none of it makes any sense, not a bit, but it sounds like Sober Enjolras may have actually been intentionally hitting on Grantaire — have _planned_ to hit on him, even. Like, in advance. With pick-ups lines and _thighs._

“Wait, hold on, I’m gonna need you to back up.” It takes only a glance for Grantaire to realize that he’d better keep this brief, for the sake of quivering, chiton-forgotten thighs, and also perhaps choose turns of phrase that can’t be taken quite so literally. “Not — shit, whatever. I’m gonna cut to the chase.”

Enjolras’s responding huff doesn’t imply much trust in this statement, but at least he doesn’t move any farther away.

“Yeah, okay, I deserve that, but I’m expanding my boundaries. Might try some white people yoga next, or boiled chicken. Who knows? I’m a man on the loose.”

A particularly chilling gust sweeps through, and Enjolras’s body trembles; Grantaire realizes the error of his ways with a flinch.

“Shit, sorry, I keep fucking this up. What I’m trying to say here is … I mean, you meant that?”

Enjolras squints. “Meant what?”

“That! All of that, back there!” His arms gesture wildly in the general direction of where the party had been. “The flirting and the touching and the _thighs!”_

Now Enjolras just looks offended; he crosses his arms, turning away from Grantaire. “I’m not _drunk._ And I’m not stupid either, I know what such —” He sputters. _“— overtures_ entail. _Yes_ it was intentional. _Obviously.”_

“Oh.” Grantaire had promised that he’d be brief, and he already sees Enjolras scanning the street for a cab or a late night bus or something that will, no doubt, take him far, far away from Grantaire. “Well, uh. If you want, we can discuss that further. Inside.”

“That’s quite all right,” snaps Enjolras, hunching over slightly and rubbing his hands over his clothed arms.

“In my flat, I mean.” Grantaire digs his hands into his coat pockets, stepping up closer to Enjolras. “I have a couch. And grape juice.”

At this, Enjolras glances toward Grantaire from the corner of his eye. “Grape juice, you say?”

“Oh yes,” Grantaire assures, wrapping an arm around Enjolras and squeezing unsubtly at his hip. “Welch’s finest vintage.”

Enjolras’s body gives a shiver, and this time Grantaire doesn’t think it’s from the cold. “Well in that case,” Enjolras says, turning to face Grantaire, “lead the way.”

**Author's Note:**

> Postscript: they start a FWB relationship that night, and several months later when Enjolras begins to catch feelings and Grantaire is beginning to cotton on to that his own feelings for Enjolras probably aren't purely lustful/platonic, they use Mouth Words and begin dating, The End.
> 
> [This is a chiton](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/7d/09/a4/7d09a48b250f176b64da8563b13282e1.jpg), [this is a chlamys](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/12/c0/19/12c01972cbc6671568c19740f5ad66d3.jpg), and [this is what Grantaire was talking about when he mentioned Marc Antony](https://chotomy.tumblr.com/post/185075112788/one-of-my-favorite-read-least-favorite-things).
> 
> Thanks to Anonymous.Inc for informing me Zagreus is indeed a little-known deity from the Greek pantheon and not just a vidya character!
> 
> Fun fact! Cait and I actually developed this premise when we were brainstorming collab ideas for our betanniversary; we ultimately decided it wasn't really the tone we were looking for.
> 
> I pine over your comments like an unmarried 19th century lady recalling a particularly meaningful brush of the hand. _Please,_ if you ~~have any regard for my nerves~~ enjoyed this fic, leave me a comment below or reach out to me at my [tumblr](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com)!!


End file.
